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CREATION-DAWN 


(A  VISION  DRAMA) 


t 


EVENING   TALKS 

AND 

MEDITATIONS 


By 

TakCvShi  Kan  no 


PUBLISHED 
BY   THE  AUTHOR 
THE   HIGHTS.    FRUITVALE,   CAL, 


Copyright  1913 

By 

Takeshi  Kanno 

(All  rights  reserved) 


This,    my    soul-incense,  I  perfume 
before  the  altar  of    divine  ego. 


A  A  i^p■i  ru 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/creation-dawnaviOOkannrich 


Portrait-bust  of  Takeshi  Kanno  bv  Gertrude  Bovle  Kanno. 


Thou  my  fignre,  —  dimmed  shadowy  ruined  castle! 

Within  thy  ghostly  vault  incalculable  echo  of  death 

Howling  as  monstrous  sea; 

Without,  the  castle  shadows  float  in  dragonish  mists: 

Eternal  tempest  of  longing  ocean  roaring. 

But  what  a  sweet,  wild  sight!  Ivook  there,  there! 

Nameless,  deathless,  beauteous  flower  clinging 

To  wounded  breast  of  thy  soul-ruined  castle. 

Where  floating  the  bravest  battle-shadow 

Of  thy  past  life  now? 

Kven  though  thy  strong  castle-hold  funerals 

Into  the  unknown  silent  domain  by  the  eternal  hand  of  time  - 

Yet,  ah,  here!  here!  thou,  my  nameless  flower. 

Remain  like  everlasting  reluctant  dream! 

Ah,  my  figure,  —  shadowy  castle,  melts  into  thee. 

Thou  everlasting  memorial  flower! 


*'Born    from   my  mother's  heart,      in    the    midst    of 

Fragrant  bloom  of  native  nest, 
Where  the  shadow    of  pine  danced  in  the  twilight  of 

Ruined  castle  encircled  by  the  wild -flower  valley; 
Born  to  this  world  like  rivulet  that  runs   from  deep 

Bosom  of  mother   valley, 
Where  the  spring  love-bream  melts  the  divine  white 
Snow  from  the  breast  of  father  Fujiyama." 

m  m  m  m  m  m 


Thus  he  came,  this  singer  of  the  Orient,  and 
with  a  nature  that  could  not  bind  itself  to  any  one 
phase  of  truth  or  racial  conception,  strongly  individ- 
ual, at  the  same  time  universal  in  spirit,  an  advocate 
of  harmonism,  of  "everything  different  therefore  one, 
-conscious  independence,    unconscious  unity.*' 

This  song-philosopher  from  earliest  childhood 
imbibed  the  rare  nectar  of  the  Chinese  and  Japanese 
classics,  beginning  at  the  age  of  five  to  chant  the  clas- 
sics to  his  grandparent,  a  man  of  literary  worth,  at 
first  for  sembi  (rice  cake),  later  for  the  delight  in  the 
classics  themselves.  Until  his  thirteenth  year  his 
training  was  purely  oriental,  mainly  Spartan  or  Bushi- 
do  (the  way  of  the  knight)  --  having  sprung  from  the 


Samurai  (the  knighthood  of  Japan).  From  then  on 
his  education  became  equally  western  and  eastern. 

During  his  college  life  he  spent  much  time  in 
the  study  of  literature  and  philosophy,  specializing  in 
his  theological  course  on  the  higher  criticisms  of 
Christianity;  striving  to  explain  Christian  philosophy 
by  modern  science  and  ethics;  ever  drawing  compar- 
isons, discovering  similarities  and  differences  in  the 
teachings  of  Buddha,  Jesus,  Confucius,  Brahma,  and 
others;  delighting  in  the  symbolism  and  strength  of 
Hebrew  literature;  revelling  in  the  mythology  of  the 
Greeks,  drinking  deep  of  its  sparkling  beauty,  —  as 
he  had  quaffed  in  early  youth  the  saki  of  his  race's 
gods. 

Leaving  his  college  life  at  Kyoto,  he  jour- 
neyed forth  into  the  far  distant  parts  of  his  country,  - 
from  village  to  hamlet  strolling  by  running  brook; 
wandering  like  free  wind  through  time-ruined  castle 
or  along  sylvan  shore;  teaching,  lecturing  anon,  sing- 
ing his  song  alway,  his  scroll  of  sonnets,  *'Travell 
ing  Gown,"  in  his  native  tongue,  lengthening  with 
each  step  of  his  journey. 

Thus  passed  his  youth  away.  Without  ex- 
pecting or  planning,  one  fair  day  he  set  sail  for  a 
new  world.  After  wandering  along  the  western  coast 
of  America  he    found  a  spot  in     harmony  with   the 


meditative  spirit  so  strong  within  him,  -  up  on  the 
heights  overlooking  San  Francisco  Bay ,  the  wild  yet 
peaceful  abode  of  the  Bard  of  the  Sierras. 

Here  he  has  remained  in  the  silence  of  dream, 
sunk  deep  in  the  ocean-thought  of  the  universe;  anon 
awaking  to  whisper  his  fancies,  his  sea-murmurings, 
to  the  soft  breezes,  to  voice  his  soul-dreams  to  my  ear. 
Even  the  Bard  of  the  mountains  caught  not  a  glimpse 
of  his  vision  nor  heard  a  strain  from  his  song;  meet- 
ing each  day  as  simple  friends,  remarking  on  the 
fairness  of  a  morn  or  the  beauty-splendor  of  a  sun 
set,  each  muffled  in  the  cloak  of  his  fancy,  each  led 
by  the  hand   of  his  muse,  apart  would  wander. 

In  our  cabin  among  the  tree-tops  oft,  **as  the 
shadows  of  night  melt  into  purple  dawn,  the  melting 
time  of  the  real  and  the  dream,  of  sleep  and  awaken- 
ing, the  conscious,  unconscious  state  of  the  mind", 
I  arouse  myself  and  sieze  and  preserve  the  utterance 
of  spirit,  --  this  voice  from  the  unknown  domain  of 
thought.  As  I  take  these  utterances,  word  for  word, 
I  see  nothing  distinctly,  yet  at  a  distance  I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  a  great  being  moving,  -  seen,  unseen, 
like  the  oriental  picture  of  the  sacred  dragon,  half 
veiled  in   cloud,  seen  but  to  vanish  in  mist. 

Well  may  his  nature  be  likened  to  the  crystal 
dragon;    his   mind,   his  spirit,  resembling  the  flight  of 


that  mystic  being,  --  plunging  deep  in  the  great  sea  of 
philosophy,  seeking  some  hidden  jewel  in  its  gloom- 
Cavern;  rising  to  hover  like  cloud  of  doubt  over  the 
waters  of  feeling;  soaring  to  lofty  mountain-peak  of 
religion,  wrapped  in  the  mists  of  inspiration;  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind  drifting,  floating,  sailing  o'er  purple 
seas  of  dav/n,  over  flowery  plains  of  poetry  and  love 
"whirling  with  the  wild  ecstas}^  of  passion  sounds,  bend- 
ing dreaming  ear  to  the  silent  song  of  gentle  midnight 
storm  of  endless  longing.  "-""A  dragon  breathing  life 
and  death.  -  Breathing  the  breath  of  poetry  and  with 
"ear  bending  to  the  voice  of  naked  creation,"  this 
minstrel  sounds  for  us  unknown  strains,  whirling  us 
into  the  very  center  of  feeling,  where  we  behold  the 
mists  of  creation  rising  about  us,  and  "hear  the  deep 
drone  of  mingling  waves,  —  the  great  sounds  of  eternal 
tides!" 

"I  plunge   into  the  vast  bigness  of  chaos. 
Sublime  music  guides  my  soul, 
Feeling  blending  into  dream  world,  — 
My  mind    flows   into   soul    of   tnii verse, 
So  naturally  comes  my  song. ' ' 

Gertrude  Boyle  Kanno 

Dream   His^lits 


CREATION-DAWN 

(Fragments) 

PART  THIRD 
Scene   I 

(Near  the  sea,  by  the  castle.  Sagano  and  Saarashi 
transported  into  sublimest  vision  of  Creation;  their 
souls  enraptured  with  solemn  music  of  love-ocean) 

Voice  from  within 

^'Let  there  be  light!" 

God  knocked  at  mystic  portal 

Of  maiden's  soul: 

Behold!  love-light  shines  forth 

From  her  heart  of  dawning-f lower! 
Sagano 

Awake,  my  soul! 

Open,  gate  of  mystery! 

Great  minstrel, 

Touching  the  sacred  harp 

Quivering  from  God  to  man. 

Listen!  mellowed  sorrow  sounding 

Sagano,  an  unknown  poet.     Saarashi, the  beloved  of  Sagano. 


From  twilight  forest  of  resurrection-dawn. 
Saarashi 

On  the  shore  of  life 

Waves  of  ecstasy  dashing! 
Sagano 

Poised  as  Venus  in  yearning: 
Saarashi 

Crowning,  foaming  flower  of  rapture, 

Breathe  in,  breath  out, 

Waves  of  life  pulsing. 
Sagano 

Now  invisible  hand  of  mighty  Creator 

Forging  human  soul 

On  the  anvil  of  passion; 

Millions  of  unformed  souls 

Burning  in  fire  of  love-ocean. 

Breathing  white-flamed  waves 

Of  melting  love: 

Thus  God  shapes  his  mighty 

Image  of  Male  and  Female: 
This  is  the  poetry  of  poetries, 
Greatest  poet,  0  God! 
Saarashi 

'Twas  the  miorn. 

Even  dawning  bud  of  pure  maiden's  soul 

Would  smile: 


My  feeling  awakened  to  dream  from  real; 

Phantom-soft  touch 

As  spring  wind,  dimpling 

Upon  breast  of  calm  sea,- 

A  touch,  such  a  touch,  0  love! 

Thou  visible  hand  of  unseen  Creator — 

Thick  morning  mist  descending  with  real  dawn- 
both  figures  seen,  unseen.-  Indistinct  chanting 
of    Saarashi  mingUng    with  Voice  of   Ocean. 
Anon  in  the  twiHght  shadows  of  morn    white 
petals  showering  with  longing  sea- wind. 

Sagano 

From  bottomless  sorrow 

Of  unknown  love-sea, 

Slowly  mourns  her  voice, 

Like  distant  storm,  heard,  unheard, 

Mingling  with  love-strings 

In  vibration  of  naked  souls; 

Storming  upon  wild  yearning 

In  melting  sweetness  of  love-rain; 

Now  howling  as  sea- wind 

Dancing  with  dragonish  pine 

In  mists  of  wild  ecstasy; 

Now  cradling  my  soul 

In  her  young  moon-craft; 

Now  crushing  her  naked  beauty 

Upon  sounding  love-ocean 


Where  my  dream  swims, 
While  silver  star  scattering 
Her  love-beams  into  the  shadow  of  dawn! 
My  perfumed  heart 
Tangles  with  curtain  of  dream, 
While  my  smouldering  soul 
Mingles  with  shadow  of  webbing  life! 
Ah,  sweet! 

'Twas  moment  vision  of  her  souled  voice 
Which  buried  in  silent  gi^aye  of  my  heart, 
In  mist  of  stormy  Creation. 
Saarashi 

Sweet,  cruel  love, 

0,  draw  my  breath! 

In  a  moment  -  Ah,  such  moment!  — 

Devours  whole  life! 

In  such  moment 

Miniatures  eternity! 

Devours  whole  soul 

Into  one  breath! 

Love!  in  thy  presence 

x\ll  being  melts  into  one! 

Speak  not  of  such  moment- 

Hohest  of  the  holy, 

Atmosphere  of  life, 

This  is  the  Breath  of  God 


In  Creation  Dawn!  — 
Sagano 

In  moment  I  feel 

Dragon  tangle  my  body! 
Ah,  pain! 

Yet  after  a  moment  I  feel 

Angel  cradling  my  feeling 
In  her  soft  love-cradle !  — 
Saarashi 

My  hungry  soul  searching, 

Stretches  trembling  finger; 

I  feel  something  touching, 

Soft  as  rain  of  petals  showerings. 
Sagano 

On  the  current  of  love  tide 

In  craft  of  life. 

Oar  of  feeling  rowing, 

Foams  of  ecstasy  splashing. 
Love- waves  of  male  and  female  mingling. 
Sagano  and  Saarashi 

Up  and  down  drifting  — 
Sagano 

To  unknown  longing  ocean. 

Where  souls'  love  created 

In  first  day  of  dawning  Creation — 

0  love-dream! 


lO 


In  phantom  craft! 

Where  art  thou  saihng? 

From  where,  to  where? 
Ah,  nowhere,  yet  everywhere. 
Saarashi 

My  f  eehng  melting  somewhere, 

Like  evening  twiUght 
Melts  into  mystic  shadow  of  night. 
Sagano 

Here  perfume  of  dreams  flowering 

Betwixt  thee  and  me! 

What  unconscious  sweet 

From  sky  of  yearning  clouds 

Of  wild  desire  — 

As  spring  shower  slowly  sprinkling 

Her  electric  feeling 

Upon  harp  of  my  thirsty  soul! — 

Before  action  -  ah,  such  a  moment! 

What  picture  in  thy  mind  floating? 

Where  is  your  will? 

Now  all  being  veiled  before  you, 
Slowly,  eagerly  yearning. 
Saarashi 

Where?  ah,  what? 

Feeling  raining  as  petals  shower. 

Heart  whirling  with  wind. 


11 


Souls  breathing  spirit  of  God 

(Moon  sinking  in  western  sea;  night  blackening) 

Sagano 

Tempestuous  wind  of  desire  (sudden  storm 

arises,  scattering  flowers  raining) 

Violating  with  homeless  clouds  of  doubt, 

Storming  on  boundless  ocean 

of  Love-Creation, 

Thundering  far  from  heaven 

To  bottomless  deep,  distant  yet  near, 

Sea  or  mist  dragon  waving. 

Scarlet  fire  from  mouth  forking,  (lightning) 

Billowing  tides  of  life  mingling. 

Phantom  locks  of  uncreated  spirits 

Devouring  white  foams 

Of  passion  breakers (voice  of  waves  heard) 

Now  spirit  of  eternal  Creation 

Moving  upon  love-sea. 

Howling  toward  heaven  like  lions, 

Mountaining  hungry  surges,  on  and  on — 
Saarashi 

Ah,  sweet! 

On  waving  ecstasy  of  feeling-sea. 

Now,  ah,  floating! 
Sagano 

Ah,  drifting! 


IS 


Feeling  in  most,  oh,  wait, — 
Lo!  tide  of  life  returns 
Unto  the  Beginning,  where  my  soul  slept! 
Saarashi 

Love- wings  of  stormy  wind  ceasing, 
Nothing  remains  in  sky  of  mind, 
Fainting  mists  showering  away, 

But  morning  star  dimly  weeping — 
Sagano 

While  stormed  petals  hunting 
Track  of  dream! 
Saarashi 

Dawning  love  awakening. 
Shining  forth  her  love-light. 
Sagano 

Look, dear,  west! 
Haze  or  mist; 

Ah,  morning  rainbow,  arcade  of 
God's  temple  of  Genesis  Night 
Appears  in  sky  of  love-dawning — 
List  to  song  from  our  inmost  soul: 

'^Let  there  be  light/' 
Voice  through  chaos 
Awakes  the  harp  of  her  dreaming  soul; 

Behold,  m.aiden  draws 
Her  cloud-curtain  of  Creation-Dawn. 


la 


PART  THIRD 
Scene  II 

Virgin  forest  of  meditation -Sagano's  mind  wandering 
in  maiden-chaos,  still  dreaming  sublimest  vision  of 
creation  which  he  chants  in  dedication  to  his  beloved 
Saarashi  whose  spirit  hovers  around  him. 

(Voice  from  within  before  curtain-rise) 
^^Let  there  beHght/' 
Voice  through  chaos 
Awaked  the  harp  of  her  dreaming  soul! 
Behold,  the  maiden 

Draws  her  cloud-veil  of  Creation-dawn! 
Sagano 

Shapeless  cloudy  forms  vaporing 

From  bottomless  chaos 

Of  the  maiden's  heart! 

A  knock  at  her  secret  chamber, 

Then  opens  portal  of  dream, 

Draws  the  veil  of  holy  shrine 

Of  the  sacred  grail. 

Lips  taste  the  wine, — a  touch  of  life! 

Aagin  I  see  shapless  form  in  magic  chaos; 

I  heard  two  voices,  ''Touch  not,  touch  not!'' 


14 


Then  I  replied  ''It  means  touch?'' 

I  entered  at  the  gate  of  Life; 

What  a  perfect  blossoming  land  here! 

I  feel  something  moving, — 

'Twas  the  wind  of  feeling 

Shaking,  touching  the  harp  of  my  soul! 

What  a  thrilling,  vibrating 

From  her  shore  to  my  shore! 

White  living  strings  from  heaven  (father) 

To  earth  (mother)    stretched  ;- 

Is  that  rain  of  love? 
I  heard  again  little  voice, 
''Touch  not,  touch  not!'' 
I  knocked  at  the  gate  of  Death  and  entered 
I  saw  a  j»etal  fall  on  a  grave  unkown; 
Thrice  I  heard  the  same  voices, 
"Touch  not,  touch  not!" 
I  saw  two  figures  shadowing  there: 
I  approach  and  I  gazed  and  gaze, — 
Ah,  'twas  the  shadow  of  my  parents! 
Here  comes  Buddha  gazing  at  the  petal 
On  the  grave. 

Silently  he  smiled  and  smiled! 
Here  comes  Christ  gazing  at  petal 
On  the  grave, —  wept  and  wept! 
Here  life  blossoming. 


16 


Souls  perfuming  on  the  holy  shrine 
In  the  presence  of  the  Creator; 
God's  burning  pen  writing 
On  the  white  pages  of  human  soul! 
I  see  the  countless  books  of  poems 
Burning  here  in  the  red-blood-fire 
Of  Creation  Dawn! 
Here  writing,  writing,  invisible  hand 
Of  Creator, 

Characterless  poem  of  creation, 
With  His  pen  of  eternal-love! 
Here  eternity  blending  into  a  minute; 
What  feeling,  burning  pen. 
Swift  as  thunder-lightning! 
What  souls  streamed  from  His  living  pen! 
Like  the  exquisite  melody  blending 
From  the  silence  of  the  kisses. 
Here  eternity  bows  his  locks- 
Here  all  kings  of  worlds 
Bow  their  proud  heads — 
All  here!  All  from  here!  All  here  grow: 
All  here  die!  Life  and  death  at  last  one,- 
A  drop  of  His  pen! 

In  chaos  shapeless  form  f loating- 
Now  parting,  yet  blending. 
Floating,  sailing! 


lr» 


Time?  Beyond  eternity, - 

Where?  Not  kowing,- 

How?  Selfless  feeling,  ~ 

Ah,  ending  where?  0  love! 

In  mingling  twilights  and  dancing  shadows 

Ah,  mingling!  Oh,  floating! 

What?  Ah,  what? 

Here,  ah,  here! 

Beyond  miracle — 

Thus,  ah,  thus! 

Life  breathing  there, 

Oh,  here  souls  perfuming  on  holy  shrine 

Of  Creator. 

On  the  misty  shore  of  love-sea 
In  a  woman's  soul,  flower  of  life  smiling. 
White  as  passion  breaker; 
While  I  gaze,  tide  of  life  swelling  swelling. 
From  bottomless  love-ocean, 
Gathered  in  my  eyes  a  drop  of  tears, 
Painful  sweet,  and  falls  upon 
The  blooming  flower. 

Oh  look,  look!  falling,  falling. 
Petals  falling,  dancing  with  wild  sea- wind! 
Look,  look!  petals  kissing,  kissing 
With  whitened  passion-breakers! 
Look,  look!  floating  floating 


Among  the  waves  of  the  fate! 
Oh,  where  is  the  home  of  Loving? 
Even  a  shadow  of  petal  I  lost  from  my  side, 
Where  is  the  dream  of  petal  now? 

Two  souls  breathing  warm  breath 

Of  love  creation, 
Shadow  of  souls  burning  in  eternal  fire 
Of  longing. 

Look!  shape  of  two  souls  floating, 
Swimming  in  an  ocean 
Of  unutterable  ecstasy, — 
Swimming  on  the  waves  of  rapture, 
In  the  bottomless  love-sea. 
Oh,  'twas  the  fire  of  creation! 
Myriad  billows  raising  their  whitened  locks, 
Howling,  howling,  crying! 
Behold,  the  center  of  vapor. 
The  whitened  flame  shapes 
The  perfect  form  of  eternal  new ! 

What  big  autumnal  stillness  spreads 

Before  my  eyes. 
When  my  divine  ego  awakes, — 
''Everything  here,  everything  here, 
All  here''-- 

In  silence  shapelessly  she  slept, 
Incense  smoke  rising, 


Wind  forgot  to  awake  silence ; 

Here  eternity  blossoming,  speaking, 

Where  death  resurrecting  up  from  sky. 

Petal  falls  on  her  lips  of  shapeless  dream, - 

She  awakes  as  deserted  petal 

Of  resurrection! 

What  fullness,  0  thou  Conception! 

What  smooth  drifting  on  thy  calm  oily  sea, 

What  a  deep  drone  of  mingling  waves 

I  hear; 

Yes,  'twas  the  voice  of  God  moving  upon 

The  water  of  feeling! 

What  soft  rowing  in  thy  sacred  craft. 

Floating  on  love-ocean. 

Where  the  holy  gail  is  shrined. 

Say  not,  she  is  a  transform  of  God, 

Ah,  this! 

Thus  I  kiss  the  warm  lips  of  the  Creator! 
A  touch!  what  sweet  touch  is  this? 
Soft  as  breath  of  budding  heart. 
What  the  naked  shadows  of  Creation? 
Ah,  ask  me  not  where  is  garment  of  day! 
I  saw  her  figure  floating  on  my  breast 
Of  longing  ocean, 
As  wave  of  incense-smoke  tangles  me  soft. 

Sun  kissing  curtain  of  dawn, 


19 


Where  souls  dancing, 

Mingling  in  love-twilght 

Tasting  melting  sweetness,  ™ 
Love-  tide  ebbing,  flowing,  toward  portal 
Of  life  yearning. 

In  sky  of  hearts  clouds  of  desire  dancing, 
Round  sun  light  touching. 
Souls  embracing,  ecstasy  raining: 

Here  the  hearts  blossoming. 
There  life  flowering. 
Feeling,  vibrating  like  exquisite  music. 
Souls  breathing  as  sun  kisses  the  curtain 
Of  dawn, 

Here  Creation  giving  breath  of  life: 
Sudden  a  mass  of  cloud  of  whitened  desire 
Takes  the  rain  of  violent  storm, 
Mounting  on  the  naked  love-waves. 
While  the  living  waters  flow 
From  the  Father  River  to  the  Mother  Sea. 
Look!  her  figure  in  naked  garment; 
Thou  whitened  love  flame! 
0  ghost!  thou  floating  in  silken  mists, - 

Seen,  unseen. 
In  sky  of  my  longing  eyes. 
Look!  she  combing  her  hair. 
Reflecting  her  naked  beauty  on  mirror. 


I  see  there  vapor  of  souls, - 

There!  there! 
I  breathe  fragrance  of  heart, 

Here!  here! 
Thou  Hving  love-grave, - 
Nay,  native  home  of  heaven. 

Thou  Eden! 
There,  there  in  midst  love  nest 
Where  wings  of  souls  fledged. 
Under  the  rock  evrlasting  stream  flowing. 

Floating  in  silken  mists,  thou  and  I- 
Her  naked  beauty  f  loatng 
In  silken  mists,  seen,  unseen. 
We  float  in  silken  love-mists. 
Our  flaming  forms  flying  as  wings  of  birds ; 
Inward  we  fly,  upward  we  soar.~ 
Hark!  voice  of  night  that  sunk 
Into  bottomless  silence. 
Listen  deeper  and  deeper. 
Silent  voice  of  night. 
Love-sun  mirroring  naked  beauty 
Upon  curtain  of  night. 
Look!  child  of  Dawn  bom! 

Hope  dawing, 

Love-sun  awaking. 

Curtain  of  night  drawing. 


21 


When  God  stretched  white  love-strings 

Between  thee  and  me, 

Mystic  harp  of  Creator  began  to  quiver. 

What  smooth,  touching  hand 

Of  visible  Creator 

Ministrels  like  dream  of  maiden  awaking! 

What  a  soft  flowing,  like  sound 

Of  moonbeams. 

Dancing  down  with  stream. - 
Dragon  breathing  life  and  death! 
Raining  white  blossoming  rain,- 

It  was  night,  indeed,  -  such  black  night! 
I  touched  the  beauty  of  life, 
I  drunk  my  soul  from  thy  burning  mouth, 
And  wrote  unformed  poetry 
On  thy  misty,  tiding  breast, - 
Breaking  Father  Sea  soul  against  cave 
Of  Mother  Earth! 

Devouring  white,  uncreated  forms! 
Devouring  willful  waves  of  desire 
Against  dark  cave  of  Mother  Earth! 

Sound  of  breaking  souls! 
My  heart  vibrating  with  invisible  strings 

Of  music  playing  in  thy  breast. 
And  my  soul  touching  with  dying  sounds 

That  return  to  infant  dream.-- 


az 


Bottomless  sweetness  of  love-rain 

Showering  between  thee  and  me; 

Graceful  weeping  willow  in  the  mist 

Seen,  unseen, 

Feeling  swings  her  shadow 

As  morning  breeze: 

Two  whitened  souls  perfuming  incense 

Of  beauty  before  holy  shrine  of  Creator! 

Beauteous  formed  poem  dropping 

From  living  pen  upon  the  baby  page 

Of  whitened  soul,- 

Ah,  now,  why,  'twas  a  living  dream 

In  Creation  Dawn! 

Voice  from  love-tide 

Endless  mystery! 

Great  sounds  of  eternal  tides! 

God  is  boundless,  bottomless  sea 

Of  Creation! 

My  soul  slowly  laving  in  eternal  love  tide 

Of  bottomless  mystery. 

And  my  ear  bending  to  the  voice 

Of  naked  Creation. - 

God's  love  instrument,  0  thou  my  love! 

I  touched  to  thy  whitened  strings- 
Storming  souls  trembling, 
Drunkened  hearts  quivering. 


23 


Waves  of  sound  in  intoxicated  beauty 

Flying. 

I  raise  curtain  of  silence  and  enter: 

Nothing  there  I  see  in  dark  twilight 

But  one  beauteous  God's  love  flame 

Smiling  in  silence, 

Spinning  endless  thread 

Of  measureless  rapture. 

While  I  gazing  my  garment  of  day 

Without  toil  all  torn, 

While  webs  of  life  tangle  me  in  love  nest, 

Spinning,  tangling,  springing,  returning, 

Streaming,  whirling,  whirling 

Into  center  of  chaos ! 
Thus  I  sung  voiceless  song  of  Creation- 

What  is  it?  what  is  it! 

Between  thee  and  me? 
Something  sweeter  than  flying  music, 
Lovelier  than  flower. 

What  is  it!  What  is  it! 
Between  thee  and  me? 
Something  dreamier  than 
*  The  veiled  spring  moon. 
Brighter  than  the  morning  star. 

What  i  s  it!   what  is  it! 

Between  thee  and  me? 


Yea,  'tis  the  souFs  native  garden  where 
God  planted  the  tree  of  love,- 
Ah,  thus  I  return  to  thee 
Thou  great  bosom  of  mother  Earth, 

Olove! 
Through  unlocked  portal  of  woman's 
Bottomless,  beaming  love-ocean. 
What!  ah,  what! 
Between  thee  and  me? 
Ah,  love  mingling  in  blossoming  air, 

Endless  weaver  of  love-mystery! 

Perfuming  dancer  in  incense  longing! 

Phantom  searcher  of  mingling  hearts! 

Shapeless  catcher  of  voice  of  soul! 
Yea,  yet  listen  more: 

Sun  is  thy  heart. 

Moon  is  thy  soul, 

Awake  as  the  naked  beauty 

Of  Mother  Earth  at  day. 

Asleep  under  the  starry  garment 

Of  mystic  night. 

Dreaming  on  the  breast  of  God, 

Kissing  the  lips  of  melting  sweetness 

Of  Creator, - 
Draw  thy  cloudy  veil  of  purple  Dawn 
And  receive  the  love-beam 


8K 


Into  thy  budding  craft, 
Floating  in  perfuming  air; 

Thou  visible  Creator,  (Saarashi  appears) 
0  my  love! 

I  sup  thy  soul  from  thy  burning  mouth! 
Thus:  we  create  a  new  world 
Between  thee  and  me. 
Twas  the  voice  of  God,- 

^^Let  there  be  light!'' 


PART  FOURTH 
Scene  I 

Grey  summer  moon-night-  Sagano  sleeping  by  the 
path  to  the  grave  of  his  friend-philosopher,  -  gong 
strikes  one  --  he  awakes. 

What  a  dream  I  dreamed! 
My  soul  still  wandering  twixt  the  unknown 
Boundaries  of  dream  and  real, 
Like  living  ghost. 

Where  is  she? 
I  feel  her  fragrance  still  hovering 
Around  me  like  warbling  voice  of  night. 
Did  I  not  pass  the  seven  colored 
Mystic  portal  of  heaven, 
Baptised  with  celestial  shower  of  love ! 
Did  I  not  sup  my  soul 
From  her  burning  mouth! 
Yet  why  anxious  clouds  floating 
In  the  sky  of  my  soul? 
Why  am  I  restless  as  turbulent  waves? 
Come,  Spirit,  thou  charmest  me  once 
And  sing  old  song  -- 

(Saarashi's  astral  body  illumines  before  his  eyes)-- 

Come!  float  before  my  eyes. 


Thou  beauteous  Flame 

Of  Eternal  Female  Creation! 

Art  thou  ocean  of  love  or  sea  of  fire? 

My  drifting  soul  anchored 

In  thy  yearning  depths, 

My  restless  heart  pillowed 

On  thy  cradling  waves! 

My  homeless  feeling  intoxicated 

With  mighty  peace  when  I  float 

In  thy  mystic  vessel. 

Thou  immortal-female-beauty! 

Within  thy  chaos-bosom  invisible 

Love-ocean  rolling, 

I  plunge  into  its  yearning  depths, 

Where  my  soul  formed  in  the  Beginning 

When  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  Love-ocean. 

What  sight  there, 
Down  yonder  in  human-blooming- valley! 
Waves  of  flower  dancing  in  air. 
Mingling  in  water  of  life. 
Floating  down  toward  Love-sea! 
Thou  longing  phantom  figure! 
Why  thou  raising  mystic  veil 
Of  dreaming  Spring?  Ah,  such  sight! 
At  what  art  thou  gazing 
With  thy  yearning  eyes? 


0  Spirit  of  flowering-soul! 
Thou  showering  heart! 

From  there  thou  comest  to  there 

Thou  goest  - 

Away,  thou  ghost!  Away, 

Thou  longing  shadow!  Away! 

Why  thou  hovering  around  me  still?  Away! 

(Sagano  takes  the  Scroll  of  sonnets  composed  and 
chanted  in  former  scene) 

Ah,  this  track  of  my  dream. 
Which  I  perfumed  before  the  altar 
Of  Eternal  Woman! 
Oh,  Heavenly  Spirit,  guide  me! 

1  am  standing  on  the  threshold 
Between  darkness  and  Light! 
Even  to  behold  I  tremble, 
Thou  my  Scroll  of  human  love! 

(He  advances  towards  the  grave  of  the  philosopher. ) 

Step  by  step 

My  feet  bring  me  to  the  grave, 

Night  by  night 

My  life  shorter  than  before; 

A  candle  that  burns  at  deep  night, 

A  foam  on  rolling  wave, 

A  flower  in  stormy  field. 

Ah  me!  is  this  human  life? 


^9 


I  faced  my  face  to  the  waning  moon, 
She  answered  me  in  sadness, 

Eternal  silence! 
Wept  and  weeping  I  gazed  on  the  flower 
That  smiled  on  the  grave; 
She  whispered  me  in  the  stillness, 

Eternal  Now! — 
Thou  invisible  friend, 
Strangely  thy  spirit  draws  me  here. 
Where  art  thou  wandering  now 
Under  such  pale  ghostly  moon  light? 
Art  thou  listening  to  my  voice? 
Tell  me  of  thy  silent  world. 
Come  and  speak  to  me, 
Let  me  see  into  thy  penetrating  eyes, 
Glimmering  under  the  heavy  brow. 
Open  thy  tightened  mouth. 
Art  thou  gazing  at  me? 
Art  thou  speaking  to  me? 
Where  is  thy  scornful  lip? 
Didst  thou  not  scorn  the  moon. 
While  thy  soul  was  wandering 
With  the  dust  of  earth? 
Saying  'Thou  planet. 
Charm  not  the  children  of  earth 
With  thy  magnetic  light! 


Thou  false  light,  brought  infinite  woe 
Into  the  world/' 

V/here  is  thy  scorning  mouth  now 
While  the  scorned  moon  cradles  thy  grave 
In  her  soft  light? 

I  remember  when  thou  and  I  wandered 
In  Spring  field, 

Gazing  at  the  human  blooming  valley; 
Thy  hated  voice  still  murmuring  in  my  ear- 
^  Woe  unto  the  human 
Flowering-Love- valley !" 
Ah,  yet  still  beauteous  flower. 
Here  beside  thy  stone  pillow 
Watching  silently. 

As  earth-mother  cares  the  beloved  child 
At  her  side! 

Oh  my  friend,  art  thou  still  scorning? 
Tell  me,  what  is  death? 
I  astray  between  Birth  and  Death- 
I  more  than  ghost- 
Why  thy  voice  charms  me  still. — 
This,  my  Song, 
I  perfume  before  thy  soul-  (Burns  scroll) 

(Moisture  of  earth  rising  takes  the  horrible  shape 
of  the  As-ghost, --smoke  rising) 

Oh,  thou  blood-red  tongue  of  Inferno! 


(Red  light  flashes)  AsheS  of  thought, 

Thou  black  ashes  of  love, 
Where  art  thou  flying  with  homeless  wind? 
Oh,  my  friend, 
I  hear  thy  laughing  voice 
From  bosom  of  grave- 
Yet  still- Ah  what- Ah  what!- 
I  see  in  dancing  flame  of  Hell- 
There!  there  [-beckoning  hand— 
My  heart  captured! 
I  see  myriad  beautiful  white  flames 
Of  immortal  Woman, 
Beckoning  with  flickering  light  - 
Still  I  hear  thy  mocking  voice! 
My  mind  dungeoned  in  thy  cold  stone  vault 
Of  Philosophy. 

I  hear  another  voice  from  above, 
^Thou  art  eternal  journey  from  birth 
Of  Inferno  to  death  of  Grave. '' 
Why  remember  thou  not, 
Birth  and  Death  only  a  drop  from  His  pen? 
Here,  I,  amazed- 
Where  shall  I  fly? 
Even  the  moon  hides  her  face 
In  doubtful  clouds. 
Oh,  thou  fire  of  love  still  burning 


82 


(Last  breath  of  fire  flames  forth) 

Within  my  soul  burning  love-fire, 

More  and  more; 

Within  my  heart  sounding  the  rythm 

Of  my  song! 

Away!  Away,  thou  blackened  thought! 

Away  from  me! 

Oh,  help!  help! 

Spirit  of  my  friend,  I  invoke. 

How  deep  imprinted  in  my  whitened  soul 

Red  bloody  characters. 

Oh  scroll!  scroll! 

My  song!  my  song! 

Why  thou  sounding  around  me 

In  the  air  invisible? 

Silence,  silence! 

Ah,  ah  thy  burned  thoughts  issue 

From  the  lips  of  silence! 

Let  me  go  from  thee. 

Do  not  open  the  scroll  before  my  eyes! 

Let  me  escape,  escape! 

Help,  help,  friend! 

Oh,  I  am  the  living  scroll! 

Within  me  thou  livest,  my  song! 

Must  I  burn  my  body, 

This  dust  of  earth? 


Oh,  my  friend,  art  thou  happy? 
My  sense  falling. 
Let  me  come  to  thee. 
To  thy  calm  silent  home! 

(He  falls  prostrate  on  the  grave) 

Gong  strikes  two. 


B4, 


PART  FOURTH 
Scene  II 

(Music  judgment.  Moon-night,  a  ruined  abbej' 
by  the  sea,  boundless  meadow  stretching  into  the 
distance,  autumn  leaves  scattering  in  the  moonlight 
Sagano  silently  enters  with  bended  head  and  thought- 
ful step.  Leaves  vShowering  upon  his  earthy  shadow 
he  looks  up,  gazing  awhile  at  the  falling  leaves) 

Ah,  falling  leaves, 

Are  ye  the  tears  of  autumn? 

Ah,  my  figure. 

More  than  the  falling  leaves 

Or  tears  of  autumn ! 

Oh  careless  wind. 

Is  this  the  dream  of  floating  world? 

(He  looks  around  at  the  abbey) 

How  oft  in  youth  I  wandered  here 

(Gazing  at   half -mined  shrine  on  which   a  candle 
is  burning.) 

How  often  I  have  knelt  before  thy  shrine! 

What  a  change,  what  a  change! 

Oh,  my  figure,  my  figure. 

Sadder  than  the  ruined  abbey! 

Look  yonder  in  the  twilight,  under  the  tree 

My  infant  figure  wandering  still! 


There,  ah  there! 

It  is  only  the  track  of  my  dream. 

Ah,  such  a  change,  such  a  change! 

(A  shepard  boy  passes,  playing  his  flute.  Sagano 
pauses  awhile  with  eyes  closed.) 

What  a  warbling  voice  echoing  in  the  vaults 
Of  the  ruined  abbey  in' my  mind. 

(Then  he  looks  towards  the  dark  forest) 

Oh  thou  virgin  forest 
In  the  silvery  moonlight, 
Thy  praying  hands  beckoning. 
Ah,  who  can  pluck  my  love-dream 
Which  I  left  under  thy  beckoning  sleeves? 
Is  my  dream  still  living  in  my  heart? 
Am  I  breathing  still  that  vaporing  love? 
Am  I  drinking  the  richer  nectar  of  love? 
Come,  thou  everlasting  beauteous  woman 
And  let  me  play  again 
On  thy  immortal  harp! 

(Red  light  flashes  in  dark  forest  and  beauteous 
figure  of  Saarashi  appears,  her  shape  slowly  fading 
into  the  darkness  again.) 

She  hid  away  from  my  sight 
In  the  white  mist  of  my  vision 
Yet  she  left  her  shadow  in  my  soul- 
As  ghostly  wind  passing  away 


36 


Into  the  dreamy  forest  of  night 
Am  I  dream  or  music? 

(Anon  starts  the  warbling  melody  in  the  far  yon 
meadow,  Sagano's  head  bows,  his  thought  drunk- 
en in  music. ) 

Why  my  tears  flow 
With  streaming  silver  sound  of  flute? 
Oh,  thou  drifting  melody  in  the  twilight, 
Thou  moonlight  sound  of  crystal  stream! 
Why  art  thou  painting  the  floating  scene 
Of  old  memory  before  my  eyes? 
Invisible  painter  thou  art! 
Art  thou  sound  of  moon, 
Or  the  voice  of  sorrow? 
Judge  me  not, 
0  sweet  music. 

Touching  to  strings  of  my  heart, 
Sounding  in  secret  vault  of  soul, 
Supping  blood  of  my  feeling 
In  sweet  memories: 
0  pain,  painful  sweet  sound, 
Before  thy  presence  garment 
Of  my  soul  all  torn! 
Behind  thy  shadow  fling 
My  heart  all  naked! 
Oh,  where  can  I  hide  me~in  tears? 


Remain  alone  like  living  tomb, 

Why  hast  thou  not  taken  my  breath? 

Oh,  cruel,  sweet  music,  hunt  me  not, 

Forget  me  in  sweet  memories 

Of  Eternal  Silence! 

Oh,  lonely  music! 

Measure  not  my  moment-rapture, 

Reaching  with  thy  trembling  hands. 

Oh,  lonely  sound ! 

Hunt  not  my  naked  heart 

While  I  dancing  with  shadow 

Of  falling  petal ! 

Oh,  sound  of  loneliness! 

Embrace  not  my  humbling  soul 

With  thy  long  gloomy  arms. 

Oh,  dark  sound! 

Why  art  thou  seeking  me 

Like  shadow  of  myself? 

Art  thou  hunting  grave  in  me? 

Before  thy  presence,  lonely  music, 

Garment  of  my  soul  all  torn! 

Behind  thy  shadow  fling, 

My  heart  all  naked! 


86 


To  My  Wife's  Mother. 


Her  life  was  music 

She  dove  into  the  Ocean  of  Death 

Like  a  white  sea-bird! 


39 


EVENING  TALKS 
AND 
MEDITATIONS. 
Dante. 

When  I  first  read  Dante  I  closed  my  eyes 
and  saw  a  perfect  picture  of  human  Hf e.  Three 
divisions,  Hell,  Purgatory  and  Paradise. 

Next  time  I  read  I  closed  my  eyes  and  I 
heard  the  wailing  sound  of  the  eternal  funeral 
of  Inferno  pacing  toward  the  patient  boundary 
of  Purgatory,  incalcuable  dream-music,  vibrat- 
ing, mingling,  in  Purgatory,  pealing  far  distant 
athwart  the  nine  strings,  ascending  into  infi- 
nite silence. 

The  third  time—  the  dim  figure  of  Dante 
floated  into  my  vision.  I  saw  the  former  picture 
and  heard  the  same  music  mingling,  I  felt 
Dante's  warm  breath,  I  lost  myself.  I  said  "Am 
I,  I  or  Dante?"  the  picture  vanished,  the  voice 
of  Dante  hushed,  I  remained  alone",  with  the 
Divine  Comedy,  harp  of  God. 

Dante  is  musical  painter  of  human  life. 

How  mirrors  to  the  eyes  of  the  orient,  poet 
Dante's  figure?  Let  us  consider  the  gloomy 


shadow  of  ruined  cathedral  figure  of  Dante.    Is 
it  only  his  shadow  astray  in  the  virgin  forest? 

Who  is  he? 

Deep  moving  sea  of  soul,  mighty  squadron 
of  will  phantomed  in  rolling  mist  of  unknown 
ecstasy!  0  wounded  soul! 

We  must  get  out  of  the  old,  labored  style  of 
writing.  This  is  an  electric  age,  and  our  form 
of  literature  must  correspond  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age, —  electric  expression!  Modern  literature  is 
tired  of  decorative  expression,  and  naked  soul 
to  soul  v/ants  to  unite  in  one  beyond  material 
pleasure, -see  Rodin's  ''Kiss'',  how  wild!  No 
moment,  no  time  to  express  decoratively,  but 
swift,  electric  expression,  feeling  swifter  than 
lightning.  Oscar  Wilde  is  an  electric  writer.  No 
doubt  that  he  dose  not  spend  time  on  useless 
description,  but  plunges  into  center  of  naked 
soul  to  soul.  Such  a  man  is  wilde,  such  is  the 
subject  of  ''Salome"  and  such  is  Maeterlink  in 
"Joyzelle".  Modern  Art  deals  v/ith  the  breath 
of  Nature,  breath  of  Life. 


VOICE  OF  DEATH-GHOST. 

(Nirvana) 

I, —  the  voice  of  Death-ghost, — 

Born  with  life; 

Grave  is  not  my  home, — 

My  grave  is  human  body. 

Pure  maiden's  heart  is  my  bed; 

No  one  knows,  so  soundly  I  sleep  there, — 

I  awake  by  the  sound  of  her  wedding  bell. 

I  am  deadly  thirsty;  slowly  and  eagerly  my 
tongue  tastes  human  blood. 

My  dinner  is  a  very  simple  meal, -no  salad, 
no  meat,  just  human  blood  I  drink,  but  my 
thirst  no  ending. 

When  I  feel  lonesome  I  mirror  the  horrible 
picture  which  I  call  ''Shadow  of  death''  before 
the  presence  of  human  souls. 

Then  men  fear  me,  astonished  by  me,  bow 
down  their  heads  to  God,  while  I  smiling,  they 
cry  to  God.  I  think  my  joke  better  than  preach- 
er's sermon,  but  they  always  hate  me,  yet  I  in- 
tend not  to  be  entirely  bad. 

Hike  meditation.  I  do  not  like  voice  of 
v/orld  at  daytime,  so  I  hide  myself  in  bottomless 


bottom  of  love-sea  and  mediate  there,  some- 
times unworldly  creatures  (poets,  philosophers 
all  kinds  of  thinkers)  come  to  my  place,  and  I 
silently  invite  them,  welcome  them,  and  I  show 
them  how  great  is  my  eternal  silent  domain. 

They  cannot  see  me  where  I  am,  though 
thy  can  feel  me  a  little  bit.  I  have  not  shape. 

Everywhere  I  go  I  am  free.  Without  per- 
mission I  quietly  walk  among  them.  They  feel 
me,  but  thy  cannot  scent  the  track  of  my  feet.  I 
walk  swifter  than  lightning.  In  less  than  a  mo- 
ment I  round  the  world.  Here  I  am,  but  I  know 
who  are  dying,  far  distant  or  near,  among  the 
numberless  human  bodies  on  earth. 

Long  ago  Buddha  came  to  my  domain  and 
asked  me,  ''What  is  death?''  I  taught  him  a  Ht- 
tle  in  the  silence,  the  wordless,  secret  doctrine. 
He  was  pleased,  and  he  called  it  ''Nirvana''.  He 
very  little  understands  me,  but  he  is  the  best 
interpreter  of  me  among  men.  He  is  one  of  the 
best  of  my  disciples.  Once  a  little  later  Christ 
came,  knocked  at  my  door,  but  I  did  not  open 
my  portal,  for  it  seemed  to  me  he  did  not  like 
me.  But  at  last  he  came  through  my  back-door 
very  unnaturally.  I  was  so  sorry  for  him, — he 
did  not  like  me.  He  is  not  here  in  my  domain; 


he  is  the  only  man  after  death  that  did  not  stay 
with  me.  I  Hke  Buddha  very  much.  I  think  he  is 
broader  than  Christ;  Christ  higher  than  Bud- 
dha. Darkness  is  my  Hght;  twihght  shadows  es- 
pecially I  am  fond,  I  like  living  creatures.  One 
inch  they  grow,  same  time  one  inch  my  domain 
grows.  Growing  is  dying;  dying  is  growing. 

My  friend,  a  poor  farmer  poet  (so  called) 
sang  about  me: 
Step  by  step 

My  feet  bring  me  to  the  grave; 
Night  by  night 

My  life  shorter  than  before. 
A  candle  that  burns  at  deep  night; 
A  foam  on  the  rolling  wave; 
A  flower  in  stormy  field. 

Ah  me,  is  this  human  life! 
I  faced  my  face  to  the  waning  moon; 
She  answered  me  in  the  sadness; 

^  ^Eternal  silence.'' 
Wept  and  weeping, 
I  gazed  at  the  flower 
That  smiled  on  the  grave, 
She  whispered  me  in  the  stillness : 

''Eternal now,  eternal  now.^' 
Perhaps  he  does  not  understand  me  much ; 


nobody  understands  me  perfectly.  Ah,  even 
myself!  But  sometime  in  eternalless  eternity  I 
may  understand  myself  perfectly;  until  then  I 
keep  my  secret  for  coming  pleasure. 

Once  Confucius  disciple  asked  him,  '  'What 
is  death''?  He  answered  him,  ''How  can  you 
understand  death  without  knowing  life"?  I 
think  it  wisest  answer  I  ever  heard.  He  knows 
me  a  little. 

I  talk  too  much  myself,  tonight.  I  hear 
the  first  cock  crowing;  I  see  the  night  shadow 
melting  into  the  creation-dawn.  Fm  hungry 
now;  'tis  my  supper  time.  Let  me  drink  human 
blood;  let  me  see  naked  souls  kissing! 

I  spread  my  wings  of  death,  and  I  soar  to 
the  nest  of  human  rest,  where  the  webs  of  life 
webbing —  ah,  sweet! 

I  drink—  I  di-unken— till  the  scarlet,  bloody 
sun  fades  into  the  whitened  day! 


Why  the  Before  or  the  After? 
I,  a  moment  of  the  two  —  night  melting 
into  morn! 


4A 


LEO.  TOLSTOI 

Tolstoi  wrote  with  his  blood.  He  is  the  best 
commentator  on  Christ,  on  the  New  Testament; 
same  rank  as  Dante,  Goethe,  Shakespeare, 
Milton. 

Tolstoi's  criticism  of  Shakespeare  as  being 
no  genious,  but  one  who  knew  how  to  fit  the 
stage,  is  true  from  Tolstoi's  standpoint  of 
'  'What  is  art. ''  Tolstoi  did  not  write  for  plea- 
sure or  how  to  suit  the  people's  mind.  He  did 
not  intend  to  write  the  commentary  of  the  new 
Testament,  but  it  seems  to  my  eyes  that  He 
has.  Indeed  it  is  an  unconscious  commentary  of 
the  Bible! 

Shakespeare  tried  to  fit  his  writing  to  the 
stage,  to  make  a  curio  and  please  the  people's 
mind.  But  Tolstoi  was  forced  to  write;  his  pen 
moved  for  the  poor  the  same  as  Christ  opened 
his  mouth  for  the  sinner.  He  did  not  try  to 
show  the  people  a  drama,  in  his  later  works,  but 
lived  one.  He  acted  his  teaching,  as  did  Christ 
and  Buddha.  Tolstoi's  life  is  like  Buddha's 
life,  while  we  read  Tolstoi  we  cannot  laugh ; 
while  reading,  unconsciously  the  garment  of 


4.6 


my  soul  becomes  orderly,  I  know  not  why. 

From  Tolstoi's  standpoint  even  Shakes- 
peare looks  like  a  cunning  rascal;  as  Shakes- 
peare sometimes  fools  the  people,  but  Tolstoi 
never;  so  that  the  people  could  not  fool  Tolstoi. 
Everything  returns  whatever  is  thought,  or 
conceived,  or  spoken. 

In  Tolstoi's  work  there  is  no  cunning,  but 
in  Shakespeares — !  From  this  point  of  view, 
Shakespeare  is  more  of  an  artist  than  Tolstoi, 
as  art  must  be  something  added  to  nature.  Tol- 
stoi has  not  time  to  add.  In  this  case  Tolstoi 
more  natural  artist,  bigger  artist;  Shakespeare 
conscious  artist;-  Dante  higher,  Tolstoi  broad- 
er, Milton  stronger  (in  poetic  form.) 

Ibsen  and  Shakespeare  pretty  well  match- 
ed (not  quality  but  power  equal.)  I  think  Tolstoi 
is  above  them,  in  character.  Ibsen  mirrored  the 
extreme  weak  points  of  human  character  which 
are,  at  the  same  time,  the  strong  points.  In 
''Hidda  Gabler"  and  ''Ghosts''  for  instance,  — 
too  extreme!  Ibsen  is  the  great  surgeon  of 
modern  literature.  He  deeply  touch  the  spirit 
of  the  Twentieth  Century,  —  the  spirit  of 
extreme  independence. 

Tolstoi  says  Shakespeare  is  not  a  great 


artist.  Of  course,  this  depends  upon  what 
ground  one  stands,  —  religious,  worldly 
grounds,  etc.  Shakespeare  is  broader;  Tolstoi 
higher  than  Wagner  or  Shakespeare  in  religious 
strength.  Shakespeare  may  be  wider  and  Wag- 
ner better  combiner.  Tolstoi  moral,  mental 
anarchist  of  the  exterior  world. -physical  world. 
Maeterlinck  internal,  metaphysical  anarchist,— 
psychological,  esthetical. 

'Tolstoi  might,  with  advantage,  return 
to  his  art,''  says  Arnold,  yet  I  say  Tolstoi's 
art  was  ''going  to  the  peasant  and  digging." 
Of  course  with  the  solid  English  idea,  Arnold 
is  right  but  not  anarchist  and  Russian — 
Tolstoi's  idea  greater  than  Arnold's — "digg- 
ing" is  his  true  art —  I  admire  Tolstoi, —  a 
great  statue  of  perfect  personality  of  Russia.  I 
admire  Arnold-  great  critic  of  art  in  England. 
Both  great,  but  standpoint  different.  Arnold's 
criticism  of  Tolstoi's  commandment's  of  Christ 
is  an  entire  mistake—  for  Tolstoi  stands  as 
Moses  in  the  old  Testament  and  Arnold  stands 
on  the  ground  of  the  New  Testament  and  criti- 
cises. That  is  entirely  different.  Of  course 
when  Christ  came  Christianity  was  perfected, 
but  not  in  Old  Testament.     Russia  is  like  the 


4.S 


Old  Testament,  the  age  of  Moses.  Second 
reason  is  that  Tolstoi  sacrificed  for  the  peo- 
ple, not  explaining  the  perfect  idea  of  Christ- 
ianity, the  genius  of  it,  but  the  practical  en- 
tirely. Arnold  stands  for  the  scholastic  critic- 
ism. Third  point,  Tolstoi  is  the  friend  of  the 
poor  and  guide  for  them.  He  has  two  sceptres, 
one  to  crush  the  tyrant,  the  other  to  guide  and 
direct  the  poor,  so  the  commandments  are 
simply  to  show  them  how  to  go. 

Tolstoi's  ''digging  with  his  peasants''  is  his 
best  art.  Tolstoi  is  the  nineteenth  century  Mos- 
es in  Russia.  Tolstoi  guiding  his  people  into 
another  land, —  spiritual,  poetic  anarchist  land, 
is  the  same  as  Moses  guiding  his  people  from 
Egypt  into  the  Holy  land,  like  Moses,  pointing 
the  way. 

Arnold's  Dante  is  an  artist  but  not  his  Tols- 
toi. Behind  Arnold  is  an  immovable  rock  of 
truth,  when  sword  cuts  the  earth,  at  bottom 
is  this  great  impenetrable  rock  of  his  personal- 
ity. 


49 


THE  THRESHOLD 

OF 

TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY 

To  me  Shakespeare's  tragedy  seems  like 
real  comedy,  so  comedy  is  real  tragedy.  Ex- 
ample; King  Lear — above  the  level  of  hon- 
esty— is  comic.  The  taste  of  tragedy  feels  to  my 
tongue  of  literature  too  honest  from  this  stand- 
point. Now  look  at  the  figure  of  Lear,  what  a 
damn  honest  fool!  Nothing  at  all  cunning 
in  his  head,  nothing  of  the  craft  of  the  wise. 

Great  humorist  must  be  great  sorrowful 
Man  (past  sorrowful  life);  example,  Mark 
Twain.  When  tragedy  becomes  comedy,  there 
is  true  tragedy.  Tragedy  blending  into  com- 
edy,— beyond  the  boundary  of  both  realms, 
there  is  true  comedy  and  true  tragedy. 

Why  did  Shakespeare  separate  comedy 
and  tragedy?  Divine  Comedy,  that  is  a  good 
name!  Why  was  it  called  the  Divine  Come- 
dy? Therein  lies   the  meaning  of  my  idea. — 

(The  Ori^i^in  of  title  of  Dante's  work  is  not  of  concern 
here. ) 

Greatest  comedians  were  Christ  and  Bud- 


dha.  Yes,  every  great  man  looks  like  comedy. 
My  definition  of  comedy  is  unbalanced,  extreme 
honesty.  Vaudeville  comedians  are  not  real 
comedians — true  comedy  and  true  tragedy  are 
neighbors.  Tolstoi  is  one  belonging  to  the  com- 
edy class.  We  cannot  separate  tragedy  and 
comedy  shape. 

i^  m  m  m  m  m  m  m 

While  the  poet  dignifies  and  godif ies  him- 
self in  clouds,  the  people  treat  him  as  a  curio. 
^ The  blind  leading  the  blind.'' 


til 


GOETHE 
AND 
SHAKESPEARE 
Shakespeare  condensed  idea  in  form 
(dramatic  ability)  and  showed  clearly  to  the 
people.  He  spreads  perfect  picture  or  mirror 
of  the  world  before  us.  We  see  the  characters 
and  plot  develope  under  our  eyes.  In  the  be- 
ginning he  gathers  here  and  there  substances 
and  builds  a  perfect  edifice  showing  the  peo- 
ple the  complete  work,  the  judgment.  The  op- 
posite with  Goethe; — in  the  beginning  Goethe 
illumes  before  our  eyes  the  complete  world  of 
human  life,  the  middle  is  all  broken  into  pieces, 
and  the  end  guides  us  into  the  mystic  world. 
His  theme  melts  into  the  air,  the  universe. 
Shakespeare  never  leaves  judgment  to  the  next 
world,  but  judges  here.  In  Shakespearean  plays 
God  has  nothing  to  do,  all  characters  being 
judged  in  the  last  act,  pleasing  the  people  of 
the  age.  Shakespeare  gives  severe  punishment 
to  the  Devil;  Goethe  just  lets  him  go. 
Shakespeare  wrote  for  world's  judgment,  -and 
Goethe  for  supreme  power.  —  Goethe  farther 


33 


advanced.  He  believed  in  the  immortal  power 
even  of  beauty —  Goethe  gives  new  breath, 
which  is  his  own,  to  whatever  he  touches,  for 
instance, — in  ''Faust,''  he  takes  ''Helena,"  — 
already  funeraled  by  the  stone  hand  of  theolog- 
ians,—  and  how  marvelously  he  breathes  into 
this  apparition  of  Greek  beauty  new  breath  of 
life!  What  a  sublime  scene  when  Helena's 
earthly  shadow  melts  into  mystic  air!  Here 
Goethe  immortalizes  elemental  beauty, — blend- 
ing it  into  the  atmosphere  of  scientific  liter- 
ature. It  is  also  interesting  to  study  Goethe's 
"Faust"  as  "Nineteenth  Century  Job." 

I  do  not  consider  "Faust"  as  a  drama — 
maybe  unconscious  drama.  I  see  in  it,  Goethe's 
own  wonderful  philosophy,  which  is  skilfully 
and  beautifully  expressed  in  dramatic  form. 
I  never  read  such  a  deep  philosophy  closely  re- 
lated to  human  life,  tuned  to  such  musical 
strains! 

Genius,  before  creation  sees  the  unutter- 
able vague  of  chaos  floating  before  its  eyes, 
then  soon  fades  away  like  false  dawn  before 
daylight.  In  this  moment.  Genius  loses  itself 
in  selfless    emotion  and    then   true  creation 


S3 


comes.  First  false  light  scatters  and  is  lost, 
but  soon  true  daylight  comes.  Genius  gathers 
forms  and  creates  new  creation  and  gives  the 
breath  of  broad  daylight  and  sunshine.  First 
sunk  into  the  bigness  of  choas  and  then  soars 
to  the  highest  heaven  of  mighty  ego  and  gath- 
ers and  shapes  new  world  of  open  mystery. 
Amiel  first  charms  people  in  his  magic  air  of 
false  shadow  of  creation  but  after  daylight  his 
shadow  disappears.  Goethe  has  both  sides,  the 
two  sides  of  Genius. 


m  ^  m  m  m  m  '^ 

Beyond  Anarchy,  beyond  Imperialism,  em- 
bracing them,  there  is  my  domain, — boundless, 
limitless,  unbroken  plain!  In  ghostly  shadow,  in 
divine  clouds, — there  my  Mighty  Self -Tower 
stands, — gazing  upon  tightened  thoughts  with 
pitying  eyes! 

Christ  but  a  Spiritual  Imperialist,  Buddha 

but  a  Spiritual  Anarchist; —  in  my  Peculiar 

Domain  they  are  One!   True  Imperialism  and 

true  Anarchism  never  against  each   other: — 

— Everything  different  therefore  one.— 


R4 


MORALITY. 

Morality  is  the  color  of  the  time — changes 
with  the  waves  of  civilization.  Philosophically 
it  is  convenience.  Spiritually  it  is  the  reflect- 
ion of  truth.  Changing,  yet  unchangeable, 
like  the  ocean,  surface  always  moving,  yet 
the  sea  remains  unchangeable. 

Some  believe  Morality  is  absolute  truth. 
Catching  the  sparkle  of  the  truth  of  the  age, 
they  catch  the  changing  figure  of  the  waves 
and  say,  'This  is  the  changeless  Morality'', 
but,  when  the  sea- wind  of  the  current  of  the 
time  ceases,  nothing  remains  but  the  smooth 
mirror  of  the  sea. 

We  must  find  the  secrecy  beyond  Moral- 
ity. What  relation  has  Morality  to  truth,  to 
God?  Is  not  Morality  the  instrument  in  the 
hand  of  Spirit? 

If  the  Spirit  does  not  move,  Morality  is 
a  useless  instrument. 

Behind  Morality  there  is  a  mighty  pow- 
er that  moves,  that  uses  this  instrument,  a 
burning  spirit  working  within   it. 

What  is  it  cultivating,  with  this  instru- 


ment,  in  the  soil  of  human  characer?    What 
is  it  forging   on  the  anvil  of  human  soul? 
What  is  it  creating  in  the  heart  of  genius- 
cultivating  through  ages, —  forging,  creating, 
endlessly? 

Instrument  sometimes  broken  or  worn  out, 
too  old,  unfit  for  use,  then  new  Instrument  of 
Morality  must  come.  Though  shape  or  color 
change,  instrument  is  instrument. 

Many  people  are  blinded  by  the  color  of 
the  time, —  the  instrument, — they  do  not  see 
behind,  the  working  power,  the  mover.  We 
must  cast  behind  us,  when  the  time  has  come, 
the  old  Morality,  we  must  not  hesitate.  At 
last  Morality  is  simply  a  convenience  of  hu- 
man life;  we  must  use  it  for  convenience  sake, 
but  power  alone  can  move  this  convenient  in- 
strument, but  if  we  use  it  in  unwise,  unskilf ull 
way,  terrible  disaster  will  be  the  result,  in  a 
good  way,  wonderful  good  results. 

We,  the  men  of  the  earth,  are  farmers. 
With  the  instrument  of  Morality,  we  cultivate 
the  soil  of  character,  of  mind,  well,  rich,  fine, 
for  planting.  But  they  are  foolish  men  who 
are  willing  to  suicide  with  Morality,  and  sac- 
rifice their  higher  manhood.    Use  instrument, 


I  say,  scientific,  advanced  instrument. 

Everything  advances  toward  perfection, 
not  only  Morality. 

Casting    behind  old   ideas,  garments, 
every  day  new  ones. 

But  unchanging  is  the  power.  Working  man, 
farmer,  dies,  and  instrument  wears  out,  but 
power  still  there.  This  power,  when  it  shines, 
appears  as  the  sun,  moon,  stars  or  other  plan- 
ets. When  this  power  moves  on  the  face  of 
the  waters,  it  appears  as  perfect  love  and  light, 
and  reflects  the  whole  world,  all  planets,  the 
universe,  myriad  colors; — these  are  the  steps 
of  power,  the  waves  of  history. 

This  power  weaves  the  beautiful  fabric  of 
Morality,  according  to  the  base  of  this  power, 
according  to  this  power's  age  and  time. 

Ah,  at  last!  Morality  is  the  instrument  of 
God,  changing,  unchangeable,  —  a  shadow,  or 
color  of  power. 


WOMAN'S  AGE  DAWNING. 

This  is  Woman's  age! 

The  barbaric  age  pretty  near  its  ending. 

Barbaric  beauty  represents  Man;  Women 
represent  softened  beauty. 

War  warrior,  bloodshed,  belong  to  wild 
beauty; 

Soft  beauty  is  the  very  center  of  soul  or 
spirit,  breath  of  creation,  conception,  nature 
of  every  element,  delicate,  refined. 

In  creation,  as  in  Genesis,  matter  is  class- 
ified thus  —  chaos,  land,  water,  beast,  fowl, 
man;  very  last  cration  —  woman. 

Woman  stands  or  is  born  for  beauty;  man 
for  truth. 

But  beauty  is  warmer  than  truth,  also  em- 
braces it. 

Beauty  touches  more  human  life  — yet 
more  ethereal-delicate-than  truth. 

Truth  is  heavy. 

If  Truth  is  a  stone.  Beauty  is  the  moss. 

Soft  beauty  embraces  hard  truth,  as  in  hu- 
man beings. 

The  foundation  of  the  house  of  humanity  is 


already  built,  inside  is  being  beautified  —the 
dawn  of  Woman^s  age.  Later  ideal  Man  and 
Woman  shall  dwell  there! 

After  two  or  three  thousand  years,  Wo- 
man's age  being  over,  then  shall  come  great 
waves  of  equal  age, — ideal  Man  and  Woman. 

This  is  Beauty  Age,  not  Barbaric  age. 

Poetry  belongs  to  Woman.  Philosophy  be- 
longs to  man. 

Too  much  philosophy  is  very  cold,  but 
foundation  of  poetry  is  philosophy.  Foundation 
of  philosophy  is  poetry,  — therefore  we  want 
an  equality.  Foundation  of  Woman  is  Man, 
but  at  the  same  time  Man  is  born  from  Woman. 
Great  rolling  waves  of  Man's  barbaric  age  ceas- 
ing; the  soft  beauty  of  God,  Woman's  age  com- 
ing! Woman  shall  guide  the  current  of  the 
times. 

Awake,  Woman!  The  world  is  advancing 
toward  your  warm,  soft  civilzation. 

We  are  passing  the  barbaric  civilation  of 
Manhood,  — fighting,  wild  education,  dying. 

But  your  electric  education  awaking,  ap- 
proaching. 

Art  thou  not  the  tomb  of  love  and  light? 

Woman  thou  art  the  soil  of  the  celestial 


S9 


kingdom,  whereon  grows  the  Holy  Tree.  But, 
Ah  eternal  woman,  who  planted  that  tree  and 
who  opened  thy  heavenly  gate?  Man!  the  Man! 
Half  of  thy  soul  eternal  Man.  Eternal  Man 
unites  with  eternal  Woman,  thus  comes  the 
perfect  one. 

Indeed  the  Poet  of  Weimar's  soul  was  in- 
spired by  supreme  Womanhood. 

I  stretch  my  hand  to  thee,  Seer  of  Weimar. 
I  honor  thy  mystic  pen  which  guided  the  soul 
of  Faust  into  the  celestial  heaven,  by  the 
fragrance  of  a  plucked  flower. 

Woman!  Woman!  What  mysterous  being 
thou  art! 

Even  to  utter  thy  name  I  tremble. 
What  joyous  love-light,  conceived  in  thy  chaos 
womb! 

Wonderful,  generous  giver,  thou  Woman. 
Thou  opened  the  mystic  gate  of  Resurrection. 
Art  thou  not  the  tombed  God? 

Who  first  beheld  the  resurrection  of  Christ? 
Not  strong  Peter,  but  the  softened  eyes  of 
Mary.  Consider  her  figure.  What  charming 
power  brought  her  delicate  feet,  o'er  the  rough 
path  to  the  tomb? 

Did  she  not  know  the  heavy   stone   was 


impossible  to  move  with  her  willow  hand?  Be- 
fore she  weeping  arrived,  the  tomb  gate 
opened. 

What  a  strong  faith,  hope,  love  dwelt  in 
her  delicate  earthly  form!  She  was  the  first 
who  saw  the  light  of  resurrection. 

On,  Woman,  everlasting  Woman!  Thou 
art  the  gate  of  Heaven;  Peter  hath  the  key, 
well  let  Man  open  it. 

Who  brought  forth  this  immortal  singer 
into  the  world?  This  Great  love-light  issued 
from  unlocked  portals  of  everlasting  Woman- 
hood. This  heavenly  poet!  Man  of  sorrows! 

Ah,  indeed!  The  Bard  of  Florence  per- 
fumed his  illumined  soul  before  the  altar  of 
Eternal  Woman  in  the  immovable  heaven. 

Who  destroyed  the  pure  character  of  Mar- 
guerite? It  was  the  man  Faust.  Who  guided 
his  soul  into  celestial  heaven?  It  was  she,  re- 
presentative Woman,  Marguerite. 

Who  guided  great  poet  Dante's  soul  into 
the  Ninth  heaven?  Beatrice, — everlasting  wo- 
manhood! Who  opened  the  Portal  of  Dream! 


61 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOAQUIN. 

Wounded  Lion,  howling  toward  the  dead  moon 
Funeraled  by  the  anxious  clouds  of  doubt; 
Glittering  his  eye — 
Flickering,  softened  by  dreadful  pain ; 
Now  groaning  against  the  dark  sound 

of  ebbing  tide. 
Calling  his  dead  mates; 
Gazing  toward  the  gloomy  beckoning  hand 

of  Fate. 
Sudden  turned  to  eastward,  where  floats 
The  scene  of  ''bravest  battle''  of  past  shadow 

of  life. 
List,  far  yon  billow! 
Dark  sound  of  ghostly  waves  dashing 

against  shore  of  life! 

Aged  Dragonish  Pine  falls  on  Mother  Earth, 

With  sounding  stormy  wind  of  life. 

Ah!  where  is  now  thy  martial  arm  that  held 

scepter, 
Ever  swaying  currents  of  the  time? 
Where  art  thou  now  sailing  in  vessel  of  Death. 
With  thy  hoary  beard  tossing  against 


62 


ghostly    wind, 
That  wafts  to  the  Unknown  Strand, 
Saihng  ^^onandon"? 
Bravest  Soul  ever  fought  in  stormy  field, 
Gone,  with  parting  voice  of  ebbing  tide, 
While  sound  of  evening  gong  wailing. 
Gone,  gone  to  the  Eternal  Land. 
Bravest  Soul  sails  on. 

His  soul,  as  eagle   flew  from  martial  sleeve 

of  Dying  Pine, 
Flying  on  wings  of  Death; 
Miles  million  in  a  moment  soars. 
Glaring  his  fire-eye! 
Soaring,  sailing  ''on  and  on" — 
Through  the  clouds 
To  the  bottomless,  boundless,  limitless  realm 

of  eternal  silent  song. 
Where  starry  mates  throng. 
Bravest  Eagle-soul, 
Soaring  upward — on! 


es 


Look  yon,  upon  the  pyre  burning  reluctant 

Dream! 
Let  soft  hand  of  ageless   Silence  funeral 

earthly  Shadow  sublime; 
Let  voiceless  voice  of  God  utter  honor 
supreme. 
Farewell,  bold  Pilot-Soul, 
Till  we  melt  all  in  One  Mystery  unknown! 


14  DAY  USE 

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